


When I See You Again

by butteredflame



Series: asoiaf drabbles [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Episode Tag, Gen, Half-Sibling Incest, Implied Jon Snow/Robb Stark, M/M, Post-Episode: s05e10 Mother's Mercy, Thanks for Accuracy, Wow That's a Funny Tag, to be safe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-14 02:56:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11199012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butteredflame/pseuds/butteredflame
Summary: Jon Snow is in nothingness for a day or two, before he is rebirthed by the fiery grace of R’hllor. But in nothingness, he finds something familiar.Has Robb returned?





	When I See You Again

**Author's Note:**

> Picks up where GRRM left off. Post-ADWD.  
> Jon & Robb gen, probably crack. Slash if you squint with minimum effort.  
> Disclaimer: Do not own. Please enjoy anyway. 
> 
> \--
> 
> This is all about love, because I haven’t gotten over that damn mutiny. If there was ever a time Jon needed to be loved, I think this is it. 
> 
> Also, sorry for TV dialogue inclusion. Sometimes can't be avoided. 
> 
> Thanks for reading.

**Jon fell to his knees. He found the dagger’s hilt and wrenched it free. In the cold night air the wound was smoking. “Ghost,” he whispered. Pain washed over him. _Stick them with the pointy end._ When the third dagger took him between the shoulder blades, he gave a grunt and fell face-first into the snow. He never felt the fourth knife. Only the cold…**

\-- 

Were his eyes opened or closed? He could not tell, for he could not see. But he could feel, and what he felt was _pain._ His flesh burned cold. His heart had turned to stone, hanging heavy in his chest. He could not move. _Yet how can I feel?_ How could he feel the cold?

The silence that hit his ears was disquieting—unending in a way he couldn’t comprehend.

Suddenly he could see himself, just enough to know he was unclothed. He eyed his bare arms with shock. The smooth skin there later turned into crescents of raised flesh along his torso: at his sides, between his shoulder blades, in the center of his belly. He frowned with confusion, only long enough to further be startled by the weight of his smallclothes, boiled leather armor and cloak about his shoulders. Longclaw was slung along his hip, grazing his knee as he twisted about in unnerving suspension.

_This is not home…_

“Jon?”

He felt for Longclaw, looking about with narrowed eyes.

“Jon!”

He swiveled, then reared backward. A man was before him, dressed in dark armor. He gasped. 

_Robb?_

He was not the man Jon remembered. When Jon last saw him, he was a man of six and ten who was every bit a lord as their father had raised him to be; every bit a Tully as a Stark, though his features favored his lady mother’s. After a rough morning wishing not to say goodbye, they had embraced in Winterfell’s courtyard. Jon had noticed the summer snow in Robb’s hair as he’d pulled away, before his half-brother’s stern expression had taken his attention. By the time Jon took in his face, however, Robb was already gone.

_“Farewell, Snow.”_

 Jon had wilted. _“And you, Stark.”_

 “Jon.”

He stirred. “How are you here…?”

Robb put a hand out to steady him, but Jon recoiled so hard he tumbled through the air like a rock.

“Stop, stop. Move with gentleness. Like this.”

He heard the murmur of leather more than he saw Robb’s movement, for he still spun. One arm lifted as a leg kicked out to the side. Jon reared, bringing his center under his spine, then let the air take him slowly, then slower, until he finally came to a stop. Yet all he saw was Robb’s lower half.

 _Wrong._ His chest hurt. _Again._

The hand came again. With a swift push onto his shoulder, he turned once more then stopped, finally eye-to-eye with his half-brother. He was still so surprised: a boy’s swagger had been replaced by a man’s calm wisdom. Yet he smelled the same

“See?” Robb whispered. “You can come to me.”

Even as he drifted forward, Jon could say nothing. None of it made sense.

“You recall those words of our farewell often, don’t you?”

“I never thought it would be the last time I saw you. I was only to be a two-day’s ride away at the Wall. You were never supposed to ride south…” He blinked hard. “You are _dead_." 

Robb paused, smiling. “Aye.”  

“Have _I_ died, then?”

“You have.”

He looked around. There was _nothing_.

“Robb…” His heart ached. “Do you know what happened to you? To your mother? To all of those men of the North? Our home is in ruins _…_ ”

Robb didn’t want to speak of it. Jon knew this and saw the evidence in Robb’s suddenly unclothed form—fingers pressed to his belly, head bowed in inspection. Jon wasn’t even surprised; only saddened, as his eyes fixed there. The pale skin ruptured to a raised line above Robb’s bellybutton, gleaming in the dim light of nothingness. _That is where Roose Bolton thrust his sword through Robb’s gut and twisted._ When he was clothed once more, Jon closed his eyes. Robb’s voice was firm.

“My regrets matter none." 

 _Oh, there he is._ “I don’t want to hear it.”

“That is surprising. Normally you would have wanted to hear of my regrets, even my shortcomings. You were many things, Jon. _Brother. Companion. Rival._ ”

 _Bastard,_ he supplied. _I was made to never forget, though it’s not your fault._

“Yes, but even for all of that,” Jon said, “I loved you. You were my brother. You were my friend.”

“And I loved you. But you’ve changed. You are harder, scarred, even burned.”

“I am _dead,_ Robb. The rest doesn’t seem to matter anymore." 

“Aye, you are dead. But _I_ am at peace.”

“Is this what lies ahead of me, then? _”_ He was grateful not to hear his laugh for long, for it was swallowed by the gloom. “I don’t…I don’t even remember what _happened._ But I feel it in my chest. I see it on my body.” He tried to recall and failed again. “My fight isn’t over. I don’t want peace.”

“You don’t remember?" 

“ _No._ ”

Robb finally frowned, as if something was out of place. Jon wanted to care but had suddenly deflated. As silence stretched on, unnerving and unchanging, he felt himself fading.

“What do I do now?”

“You must remain resolute,” Robb ordered. “You must have faith. Above all, you must remember. I am with you always, brother.” 

 _I know this,_ he thought _. I tried so hard to put you to rest, but I know this._

“I don’t understand why you’re here with me,” he said instead, gesturing grandly. “Why won’t you go beyond?” 

“Beyond? Jon—” Robb was suddenly laughing. “There is no beyond. This is all there is. I believe, however, that you cannot see it.” 

He looked around again, knowing what he would find. _More and more of nothing._

But Robb was smiling gently. “You have not crossed over yet. You are not ready.” 

“Then—” Jon started. “Where am I?”

“You are here. But the time has not come for you yet.”

 _None of this makes sense._ His head was spinning. _None of this makes sense._

“How did you come for me?” he asked, wanting to know more. “How did you know I was here?” 

“Well…” Robb looked around, as if searching for curious ears, then said, “I heard a wolf howl.”

Jon blinked, once, twice. Then he laughed, real and true, and forgot the pain and the cold for only a moment.

“You’ve gone mad.”

“I am at peace, brother!” Robb waved a shaming finger at him. “I am not mad. I am at peace.” 

“I must disagree, my lord. You are _mad_.”

Yet the rib did not invoke his familiar ire. Robb was watching him unerringly, Tully blue eyes gentle. “You don’t need to call me that anymore. Not here.”

He wanted to say, _here there is nothing._ But he tried to put his niggling thoughts to rest and focus on the man before him. 

“What shall I call you then?”

Robb rolled his eyes, as if Jon should have known better. _Perhaps I should._ But it was hard for Jon to forget. _If I could trade memories of life for the memory of death—I would._ He was amazed and disturbed that he would.

“Call me all but that.” Jon frowned, but Robb stirred. “I will take your mind off of this. Come, let’s move. Tell me about everything. All that you can remember, that is.”

“Why?” Jon asked as Robb tugged his elbow. Movement was minimal as they drifted forward, yet surprisingly distracting to the sensations of pain and cold. “What good will it do?”

“It will do all the good. Since when are you so dull? Have you lost your touch, Snow?”

Jon chuckled darkly. “I’ve lost a lot of things.”

Robb stopped and turned to him. For once, he couldn’t seem to say anything. His face was long and somber—Jon finally caught a glimpse of who Robb had become during his campaign. Jon saw _Stark._ In fact, he even saw himself.

Smiling he said, “But I’ve gained some.”

“Whoever wanted you dead was either seething or notoriously clumsy. Perhaps both! Who knew my little brother could make such enemies?”

 _Enemies were all I had, but for a few good friends. By the time it was over I was all but alone at Castle Black._ He spoke of his time at Castle Black and beyond the Wall—of harrowing adventure, the many battles fought against Wildlings and his sworn brothers, and the woman he still loved. Laughing, Robb only said, _Good for you, Jon._ When he meant to speak of the dead rising, Robb cut in, _And what of the sword?_   He told him that Longclaw was a gift from the 997th Lord Commander but chose to keep the Old Bear’s name secret. At which point Robb cast a sharp eye upon his form. _I see,_ he said, _it suits you._

Speaking helped to pass the time, helped to ease the unseen above and below, and forced Jon’s thoughts away from the fact that he didn’t know how he’d gotten here nor how long it had been since. Speaking helped, yet he was unsure of why he couldn’t tell Robb of much and more: Stannis Baratheon’s campaign in the North and at the Wall, the Bolton’s holding of Winterfell as Warden of the North, especially of Jon’s election as the 998th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. Anything but that—for when Jon thought of it, pain washed over him and he swore his wounds were smoking, even in the gloom.

He wanted to ask who else Robb had come across in death. Arya? Bran? Rickon? Had he seen Father? What of his lady mother? But he couldn’t. After all this time, it didn’t feel right. Robb must have known what he was doing, however, when he asked of Lady, Grey Wind, Nymeria, Summer and Shaggydog. _Some have appeared_ , Robb said _, others have not._ Jon understood. Even in death, they didn’t quite know what was happening.

  
“How long can I stay here?” he asked some time later, glancing around once more. He just wanted to cross over and lay his life to rest. He wanted _peace_. “Sometimes I feel myself fading, but then the sensation stops. How long do you think, Robb?”

He soon found that Robb was woefully out of his depths, however, for all he could answer was, “I’m sorry, I do not know.”

After a sigh, Jon went quiet.

“I will stay with you until—”

“We don’t even know what will happen, Robb.”

“I’m sorry.”

They drifted in silence for some time. Jon only tried not to think. Robb pulled him into a hug, and Jon smelled oil, leather, and a sweet breeze. He held on tight, remembering, wishing to forget. They stayed there until something within Jon’s body started to stir. He pulled away and clutched his belly, eyes stretching in the dark to see what was happening. His chest hurt—it always did—but this was new.

“Jon?”

He was burning.

“I know what this is.” Robb’s eyes were bright, almost excited. “I’ve seen this once before.”

“What is happening?”

“You are returning.”

His belly twisted and he gave a grunt. It felt like he was dying again. He wanted to say, _No._ He wanted to refuse, to say he didn’t want to go, that he was afraid. But he couldn’t speak. He was burning. When he started to fade, this time it didn’t end. Robb’s voice was a whisper in his ear, carried by nothing.

“I will see you soon, brother. May the next time be our last.” 

\--

Were his eyes opened or closed? He could not tell, for he could not see. But he could feel, and what he felt was _pain._ His flesh burned cold. His heart had turned to stone, hanging heavy in his chest. He could not move. _Yet I am breathing,_ he realized, as he woke with a gasp. His chest burned with a thousand suns as his lungs, so unused to it, strained to filter the cold air. Beams of aged, black wood soared above—and below, he lay on more wood, a table. He was in the Lord Commander’s chambers _._

He pushed himself up, feeling skin tight and loose in places where it shouldn’t have been. He was so _cold,_ because he worse no clothes. And he saw it all. Shaking fingers pressed at the crescents raised along his sides and belly. The muscle below his left shoulder blade gave a harsh twinge. His breath _hurt._

Needing to move, if only for things to make sense again, he slid off the table only to brace his weight on weak, unused legs. But a figure had turned into the room just in time, and Jon collapsed in Ser Davos’s hold as the man threw a heavy woolen blanket around him. He shushed him, told him it was alright, but Jon didn’t think so. Alright, it would never be.

Jon refused a seat on the table. He felt safest on the floor by the window, so he huddled there, recalling flashes of summer snow filtering into Winterfell’s halls.

“What do you remember?”

Jon barely heard the knight over his panting breaths. He screwed his eyes shut, trying to remember. He saw the great hall in Castle Black, all eyes on him as he announced Ramsay Bolton’s letter and his plans to ride to Winterfell alone. The sudden support had caught him off guard—but at the back off the hall, he had seen… He had felt it coming on. He had known. _Bowen Marsh. Yarwyck._ They’d left the hall with their men. Jon had known something was amiss.

“What did you see?” It was the Red Woman, Lady Melisandre, watching him with sad, yet eager eyes.

Jon saw it all. He shouldn’t have left the hall. He should have stayed at the table, should have listened to Tormund’s talk of a mission to Hardhome, should have feasted with the Wildings who would have marched to Winterfell with him to make Ramsay answer for his words. Jon didn’t regret breaking his vows, for he had to fight for his family and home. He regretted acting on the urge to speak with Queen Selyse Baratheon, and especially regretted running off to the wail of one in mortal danger.

 _I should have known._ Ghost had known even before the meeting had been called. Yet Jon had wrestled him into his cage as if the occurrence was ordinary. _I should have stayed._

“What did you see, Jon? What happened?”

Jon glanced at her eyes, then the floor, searching his memory beyond the third knife in his gut. He searched but he could find nothing.

“Ollie…he put a knife in my heart. The others, too. Bowen Marsh. Wick. They _stabbed_ me…” Still burning, Jon searched their eyes for answers. “I shouldn’t be here.”

Ser Davos frowned deeply as he gestured to the lady. “Lady Melisandre brought you back.”

 _No._ Jon didn’t want to believe it. He knew he’d been dead for days, for he could feel it. _How have I not lost my mind?_

But his pain was of no interest to the Red Priestess. She rushed to him and knelt before him, eyes beseeching.

“After they stabbed you, after you died, where did you go? What did you see?”

He was prepared for her. “There was nothing, nothing. And now I’m back.”

A moment passed as his breath calmed. He watched her deflate, wilt like a dying rose.

“The Lord let you come back for a reason,” she insisted. “Stannis was not the Prince Who Was Promised. But someone has to be.”

Jon could only lower his gaze. _Perhaps I am the dying rose after all. Forever dying. Always dead._ He wanted none of this.

When his pause stretched into silence, Ser Davos asked the lady to give him and Jon a moment alone. Though she was stunned, Jon saw resolution in her eyes. Her footsteps faded behind the door. Jon collapsed further into himself.

“You were dead and now you’ve returned.” The knight had dragged a chair over and seated himself before Jon. “It’s completely fucking mad, it seems to me. I can only imagine how it seems to you.”

“I did what I thought was right and I got _murdered_ for it. Now I’m back. _Why_?”

“I don’t know. Maybe we’ll never know. What does it matter? You go on. You fight for as long as you can. You clean up as much of the shit as you can” 

“I don’t know how to do that. I thought I did.” Jon touched the crescent at the center of his belly, but did not recall his own wound. “I failed.”

 A whisper drifted into his ears, quiet as the snow, soft as a lover’s touch.

_I will see you soon, brother. May the next time be our last._

“Good,” said Ser Davos, firm. “Now go fail again.”

Somehow, he saw a future in Ser Davos’s eyes—a future beyond the Night’s Watch.

 _I will be okay_ , Jon realized, breathing deep. _They’ll have no more of me, now my watch is ended. I will be okay._

 

 

  


End file.
